


Everything's All By The Way

by Savageandwise



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Angst, December 1980, M/M, McLennon, Prompt Fic, Queen - Freeform, Work of fiction, love of my life, no description of death, not my take on reality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 15:41:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17226791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savageandwise/pseuds/Savageandwise
Summary: John is dead.Paul struggles to deal with his loss.The Queen song Love Of My Life features.





	Everything's All By The Way

**Author's Note:**

  * For [twinka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/twinka/gifts).



> This fic is based on a prompt by Immovableheterosexualitytheysaid. I meant to write this sooner. But life happened. The prompt was too intriguing to let it go. Thanks immovablehet!

It feels like the first dawn after the apocalypse. A cotton-wool silence covers the world like the shattering of his eardrums.

_He is dead and gone,_  
_At his head a grass-green turf,_  
_At his heels a stone._

There's no turf. No stone. She keeps his ashes in her room in the fortress she locked him in. Even now she won't share a single part of him. Not even what's left. John wasn't hers alone. He belonged to the world. He belonged to Paul.

It's loud in Paul’s head. All the instruments playing at once. Brass first: the fucking show-offs. Strings straggling behind like lost sheep.There's something looming on the horizon of his mind. A terrible jabberwocky of a thought:

Now he'll never know.

Rat-claw scramble of panic in his brain. Should have asked him when he had the chance. But when? Before the fall or after? Miami? Hamburg? London? Rishikesh? Assuming he would have answered truthfully.

Do you love me like I love you?

He can't get his mind to stop. All the whiskey in Scotland can't get it to stop.  
He needs to ride out the trip all the way down to the end of the line. He's dimly aware of the insect-like attempts to draw him out of his state of shock. Linda, his children, friends and fans. He can't hear them. He can't stand it. They're here, John is not. Paul is here, John is dead. The words are gibberish.

“You always blow things out of proportion when it comes to him.” Linda had said that years ago, when he'd shown up at John's door with his guitar and was turned away. She hadn't meant to be cruel, just honest. It cut all the same, a broad stripe across the heart.

“You can't just turn up whenever you like. It's not 1956 anymore.” That's what John had told him, his face creased with irritation and fear.

He hadn't blown it out of proportion, John had. He’d told her as much. She'd said she was sick of pulling apart every word John said. She’d said it was bad enough playing second fiddle. Strings again, trailing behind the brass and winds, straggling home. It was clear who the love of Paul's life was. And it wasn't the mother of his children. He had walked right out of the room as if she hadn't spoken. 

But how was he supposed to know he would never get the chance to ask him? Should he have guessed that someone would come along and rip John Lennon cleanly from his life? Should he have known?

Most of the time he's made of stone. He's working, paying bills. He's eating and sleeping and all that jazz. Just like always. He's talking to journalists, isn't it a drag? There's an underwater, sugar-syrup quality to life. There are only two levels. Inertia or pain.

“You can let yourself go,” Linda mouths. “I've got you.” Her voice sounds like white noise.

She doesn't have a thing. No one does. What happens when he loses her? What happens when she's gone? People let you down through no fault of their own.

Crackle of noise on the edge of his consciousness. Just a brief burst of static. Like a distress signal transmitted by radio. S.O.S. Save our souls.

_Bring it back, bring it back…_

Clear as day. A voice that could cut glass, sweet as jelly and gunpowder. It's gone again. 

The sound came from the general direction of the kitchen. Paul follows it blindly, hoping for another taste. It's the first outside noise he's heard in days.

_Don't...away from me…_

A waterfall of hissing, loud, relentless, breaking through the din of Paul's thoughts. He doesn't turn on the light in the kitchen. It smells like burnt toast here, of garbage and rotten fruit. The sink is full of dirty dishes. The radio is on, emitting disconnected fragments of song. He recognises it now. The irony is not lost on him. The sweep of the piano, the harp that floods him, drowning out those clamouring strings, those bellowing trombones. 

_You will remember,_  
_When this is blown over._  


This storm will never blow over. It will rage forever. Just below the surface of his skin. Freddie doesn't know what the hell he's talking about. He never knew love like they did. Paul wishes he could tell him that now, from one deviant to another.

An idea flickers through him. Like a match head bursting into flame spontaneously, shines like a Lucifer. This is an S.O.S. signal. Freddie Mercury isn't trying to tell him a bloody thing. This is a cry from beyond the veil. 

He asks his question now. Do you love me like I love you?

He adjusts the dial on the radio. The voice is almost too faint to hear, coming through in fits and starts, then smooth and rich, effortless. 

Do you love me like I love you? 

_I will be there at your side to remind you_  
_How I still love you_  
_I still love you_  
_I still love you_  


It's enough. Paul was never one to shoot the messenger. The message is all he cares about. 

_Love of my life_  
_Love of my life_  


**Author's Note:**

> Yes, that was a quote from Shakespeare's Hamlet. 
> 
> Also, of course Freddie Mercury's Love Of My Life.
> 
> Other briefly alluded to songs:
> 
> Travelling Wilburys End Of The Line and Wings Letting Go. 
> 
> Thanks to Twinka, Whereitwillgo and Jane.


End file.
